Heavy Lies The Crown
by Danaye
Summary: AU. "Alanna grudgingly placed her hand on Roger's arm and the two descended from the dais, leaving the ornate thrones empty behind them. As they left the room, Alanna spared it a single backwards glance. With a small pang of remembrance, she thought of the two monarchs who had held court there before her and Roger. The Throne Room had been a lot less dangerous back then."
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters that you recognize from Tamora Pierce's works.

**Pretty Important Authors Note**:

This is an Alternate Universe story. It diverges from canon around the time of the Great Market Riot in _Lioness Rampant_. Everything that happened afterwards has been disregarded. The backstory of the current situation will come in pieces, and the states of most of the main characters will be explained in the first few chapters. The storyline of this fic involves a lot of attention to both major and minor details, so something may have passed me by unnoticed. If a detail regarding canon is wrong and it's important to you that I change it, then it's important to me as well. So, please let me know.

Huge thanks to **Sweetmari**, who has been helping me out with this from the get go.

**Also, I am considering a beta, since this story will require a lot of keeping track of small details and I need some help with that as well as proofreading for grammar and spelling. PM me if you're interested.**

* * *

**Prologue**

The Great Market Riot had changed everything. It all started with the death of a young child caused by the future king's own stallion. A rumor, sprouted from the grieving mother's angry words, spread like wildfire. Jonathan of Conté's future reign as King of Tortall was, in the mind of the kingdom's population, doomed. Thus it had ended before it even began. A man could not hope to hold the throne without the support of his people. Shortly thereafter, with a possible civil war looming, the young Conté king-to-be inexplicably rescinded his claim to the throne and fled the capital.

A different man bound to the throne by blood, who had been carefully planning and meticulously plotting for longer than anyone assumed, rose to power. His coronation was swift and forceful, leaving no time for anyone to doubt the seemingly dire need for the change in kings.

The Lioness, a well known figure in the land, returned to Corus, spurred on by the frantic words of a Doi fortuneteller. She came with a former princess, a K'miri, and the Shang Dragon in tow; but bore no other fruit of her travels. Upon her arrival, she found the majority of her close friends preparing to flee, the man she killed alive and newly ascended to the throne, and her beloved kingdom a terribly different and dangerous place.

Shortly thereafter, the new monarch announced his future queen, which brought an even bigger shock to the already shaken Kingdom of Tortall. Surely, though, the future queen's shifting loyalties meant that she too had believed that Prince Jonathan's reign would have been cursed. Surely it meant only one thing — the mighty and powerful were, indeed, placing their support fully behind the new king. While some select courtiers spoke words such as "traitor" in hushed tones and in back halls, there were no doubts that the future queen had committed herself fully to the future of Tortall. Whether that future was to be prosperous or disastrous was yet to be seen.

* * *

On the eve of her coronation, Alanna of Conté and the new Queen of Tortall, shifted restlessly from one foot to another. With each set of eyes she met, the weight of the crown grew heavier on her brow. There was not a single expression to be found on any of the courtiers that was simple or easy to read. She saw faces with hints of accusation, disgust, respect, hope, and everything else in between. Questionable loyalties and even more questionable motives were blurring the lines that had been so clearly painted years ago.

Her breath grew more and more strained as noble after noble came up to offer their congratulations and wishes for her well-being. Oh, how easily lies come to our lips these days,she thought, her eyes ablaze with thinly veiled frustration. They spilled from poisoned tongues, but were honeyed with sweet ambiguity. Nothing was black and white anymore. Her world was swaying from light to dark like a pendulum set madly off-kilter. She feared that nothing short of the Gods' intervention would ever set it right again.

It was sad, but telling of just how skewed things had become, when Alanna realized, with a sharp ache in her chest, that she was doing for her new husband exactly what she had vehemently refused to do for Jon. However, current circumstances had made the decision for her. She'd grit her teeth and bite her tongue for as long as was necessary, but by the Goddess, she'd be the queen this kingdom needed. She feared that, without her protection, King Roger of Conté would bring the Kingdom of Tortall to its knees.


	2. Ch 1: Ambiguity

**Chapter 1**

_Approximately 1½_ _years later. _

Alanna spoke firmly, yet diplomatically, to Lord Reymond of Torhelm. On the inside, however, she was struggling to keep her voice steady. The long day was starting to wear on her, and her temper was getting harder and harder to keep reined in. They'd been listening to the Lord of Torhelm for a long while, and it was time they wrapped up his petition. Finally, she voiced a fair compromise and the man bowed gratefully to the monarchs, but she noticed the fearful shift of his eyes towards her husband. As the Lord strode out of the throne room, with a nervous swiftness that befell most of the visiting courtiers these days, Alanna was once again struck with the irony of her role.

When Jonathan had asked for her hand a few years prior, she had imagined herself to be a horrible candidate for Tortall's Queen. She had been positive that all she would do was make a mess of things and anger the court. However, time had made a fool of them all, and here she was smoothing things over and doing everything in her power to keep Tortall from open rebellion. That included holding her tongue, forcing a smile, and oddly enough, cleaning up the messes her _husband_ made.

She desperately wanted to deny the change that had come over her throughout the past year. It was draining, truly. She was not a natural at being a queen. She used to think that war simply meant blood, battles, and swords. However, she was now tangled in a war of words, political maneuvering, and deceit. This type of war was an ever-changing beast — a whole different animal, and it was wearing her thin. Every day she woke up a little more exhausted and a little more bitter. She wished, more than anything, to be Sir Alanna again. She wanted a helm and the freedom of a short temper. However, she could wish all she wanted, but the reality of everything remained. She was a queen, she wore a crown, and short tempers had no place in the preservation of kingdom.

Brushing such thoughts aside, Alanna reluctantly returned her attention to the court and the endless petitions being proposed before the reigning king and queen. While there were significantly fewer petitions since the first arrests had been made, these court sessions still lasted the better part of the afternoon. Now, after several bell's worth of time had passed, Alanna's spine was starting to resent the throne she sat upon, despite the fact that she had once found the cushioned seat most comfortable.

The next courtier came and kneeled before the throne. Alanna gave an internal sigh as the portly lord ambled to his feet and straightened out his coat. He cleared his throat loudly and began to speak. Lord Fauther was a minor lord from the northern reaches of Tortall and often considered himself to be far beyond his station. She had already felt the weariness from the day settle into her bones and she knew that the king felt the same. This usually meant trouble was possibly on the horizon should a courtier display behavior that was, in fact, beyond his station. She internally prepared herself to act as the mediator once more.

As Lord Fauther continued with his lengthy, obviously rehearsed speech, Alanna shot a sideways glance at Roger. Her husband seemed to be radiating a serene calmness, but she knew better. After holding court for over a year, Alanna recognized the intermittent twitch of his hand that was the only visible sign of his irritation.

The twitch became more frequent as Lord Fauther seemed to become more passionate, and consequently more self-entitled, about his petition. Finally, with a dramatic flourish, the man finished his statement – only to be rewarded with a noncommittal wave of Roger's hand.

"I'll think it over, Lord Fauther, but I do not believe I can grant you the funds you are requesting."

Alanna suppressed a sigh. She had expected Roger's reply to be as such, but she couldn't help but wonder sometimes how things would have been if Jonathan had been king. She knew Jon had been flawed as man, but she had never gotten the chance to know Jonathan the King. When she had been his squire, she had heard his passionate speeches about the delicate balance a kingdom required and the attentiveness that a king needed in order to rule fairly and justly. This, whatever this was that Roger had created, was _not _a balanced kingdom. Despite Lord Fauther's arrogance, he still deserved the same attention and consideration as everyone else. However, Alanna would play along with Roger's games, for she had not the power to right the skewed balance that had befallen the Kingdom of Tortall. Therefore, she pressed her lips into a thin line and kept a careful eye on both the lord and her husband.

The lesser lord looked indignant, and with his insulted pride most likely at the forefront of his mind, he fixed Roger with an angry glare. Alanna leaned forward, resting her hand on Roger's in order to stop the involuntary twitch from becoming noticeable. She then gave her husband a minute shake of the head and glanced at the foolish lord, "Lord Fauther, you do not have the assets, nor the history of reliability, for the crown to be able to grant you such a large sum of coin. I assure you, we will consider your offer with the utmost sincerity, but we cannot guarantee you anything at the moment. You will be informed as soon as we come to a decision regarding your petition."

Lord Fauther opened his mouth to argue once more, but Alanna spoke quickly before a word could leave his gaping mouth, "You are dismissed. Next petition, please."

* * *

As court came to a close, Alanna's brother approached the dais. As acting Prime Minister, Thom usually had a thing or two to comment on at the end of a session. Sometimes Alanna wondered what Roger's intentions were in having not one, but both of the Trebond twins in positions of power in his court. She could understand her ownposition. As his queen, Roger could keep a close eye on his most likely enemy. She had the uneasy suspicion that Thom's life hung in the balance of her relationship with the king. Thom was a reminder that, should she step out of line, Roger could still destroy someone she loved. Thom was merely a pawn with a mask of power. Si Cham, a Mithran Priest who had once instructed Thom in magic, had not been so lucky.

Si Cham's presence had been demanded in the capital shortly after the coronation ceremonies. Roger did not like the state of his life to be, in any way, attached to another person's. Now that he was king, he no longer needed Thom's magical connection in that way. Alanna still didn't know the exact state of Roger's magical abilities. Nonetheless, Si Cham, who had already been informed of Thom's declining state of health, had been called on to purify Thom's magic and separate the tie between Thom's life and Roger's. Upon completing that remarkable feat of magic, Roger had executed Si Cham as a threat to the crown under accusations of treachery. Alanna wished she could have had a chance to spare the man's life, but her position was too precarious at the time to do anything but stand by and watch as her brother's savior was hung until dead. Si Cham was not the only one to die. Several people, specifically those who had been openly loyal to Jonathan and were useless to Roger, had been sentenced to imprisonment or death. Roger's rule had begun, unabashedly on his part, with executions.

So, as her brother came to stand by her side, she silently thanked Si Cham once more and prayed a silent prayer to the Goddess and the Black God for him to have peace. Thom had been steadily regaining his health over the past year and a half. Now, his figure had filled out some and his clothes no longer hung loosely on his frame. His coppery hair had lost most of its dullness and his cutting wit had returned with a vengeance. Thom turned to Roger, with a smirk on his face.

"Personally, I believe you shouldn't have granted the Lord of Torhelm's request. He'll only be bolder the next time he comes."

Alanna scoffed and rolled her eyes, well aware of the fact it came off as a rather childish gesture, "Yes, and he would've caused more trouble had we not found a favorable compromise for him. He _is_ a rather powerful lord, Thom, no matter how skittish he appears."

Thom smiled wryly, "Well, I believe anyone would be skittish with the possibility of arrest hanging over them every time they come to court. And my, Alanna, aren't you turning into quite the diplomat."

"Quite the interrupter as well." Roger said mildly and then cocked his head as if assessing his queen. He seemed to come to a satisfying conclusion for he smiled. "Better you deal with the fools than me," he stated simply, holding his arm out for Alanna. "Come, we have some things to discuss before the evening meal."

Alanna grudgingly placed her hand on Roger's arm and the two descended from the dais, leaving the ornate thrones empty behind them. As they left the room, Alanna spared it a single backwards glance. Shards of dying sunlight fell across the room, illuminating it with a fading glow as the guards began to herd the remaining people towards the door. With a small pang of remembrance, she thought of the two monarchs who had held court there before her and Roger. The Throne Room had been a lot less dangerous back then.

* * *

While they seemed to compliment each other in temperament while holding court, the king and queen were not the most compatible of partners. Alanna had no false illusions of companionship between herself and Roger. After all, a history such as theirs was not easily brushed aside.

When she had first returned to Corus and found Roger with a beating heart, outright war was declared. The animosity between Sir Alanna and Duke Roger was a well known fact throughout the kingdom. After all, she was hardly expected to have any positive feelings towards the man she killed. Friendship had never been considered grounds for killing a man. However, life these days demanded an excess of subtlety. Hate between a knight and a duke was one thing, but hate between the reigning king and queen was a whole other issue.

As it was, Alanna found herself sprawled on the settee in Roger's personal study, purposely exaggerating her unladylike tendencies because she knew it irritated her husband. The deep green silk of her dress was most likely gathering a mass amount of unsightly creases, but she couldn't care less. There were more important things to worry about than the appearance of her clothing. She had a moment to spare before freshening up for supper and these moments were not to be wasted. So, examining her nails, she nonchalantly began the game that she and Roger had been playing for over a year.

"I believe Lord Fauther looked you in the eye today, Roger. How very insubordinate of him. Shall I call for an arrest?"

Roger looked up from his paperwork with a bland smile on his face. "Oh, I'll let him by this once. After all, I'm rather knowledgeable of the importance of second chances."

_Time to remind him, _Alanna thought, _it's been at least a week. _She smiled slyly, "Let's hope he's better at second chances than you."

She rose from her reclining position and started to walk into the adjoining chamber. She stopped just before the threshold and looked over her shoulder, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "As I recall, the true heir to the throne is still alive and well, running amok somewhere in the lands. Goddess be kind, I hope he gives you no trouble in the future, _Your Majesty." _

After giving him a mocking curtsey, she swiftly shut the chamber door and let out a breath. Roger was no fool. He knew the importance of these little battles and was well attuned to the ever shifting balance of power between them. The game was over for now, and thanks to her trump card, Alanna had won…this time. However, she was no fool either. She knew that a single battle won did not mean the end of a war, and there was no end in sight for this particular war.

* * *

After her bath, Alanna found herself fidgeting as one of her ladies-in-waiting put pin after pin into her hair and then maneuvered the long locks into a coronet. Roger had long since commanded, not merely requested, that she grow her hair out to a suitable length. She had acquiesced and granted him that small victory, for her hair was of little consequence next to the well-being of a kingdom. So, over a year later, her coppery hair hung just past her shoulder blades. She almost always had it pulled back or pinned up in some way, to keep it from falling into her eyes. However, she was finding herself more and more impatient with the process as time went on and thought longingly of the simpler days when the length of her hair was not an issue one way or another.

Alanna's youngest lady-in-waiting, Nellie, began to twist diamond studded pins into her coronet. Alanna shook her head, disturbing the process and felt a sharp jab to her scalp. She winced a little and Nellie gave a small gasp, "I—I'm sorry, My Lady. I—"

Alanna held up a hand, effectively silencing the girl, "The black stones, please, Nellie."

Cythera, who had come to be an unlikely friend to the queen, stepped forward. "Alanna, it's been over a year. Surely, the appropriate time for mourning has passed. You know it only angers the king."

Alanna glanced up, meeting Cythera's eyes in the mirror, "There are new things to mourn every day, Cyth," she replied quietly, reaching back to lightly touch Nellie's shoulder, "the black stones, please." She watched as Cythera gave a sharp nod to Nellie and the girl rushed to get the onyx studded pins that Alanna had worn often since the first executions of Roger's reign. Defiance had become a much more delicate art for Alanna than it had been in the past, yet she did what she could. If it wasn't the pins, it was a ribbon or a brooch. There was always a touch of black to be found on Alanna's person.

Satisfied with her queen's hair, Nellie curtsied deeply and stepped back to let Alanna stand. Alanna thanked her and watched as the girl left to ready her gown for the evening. Alanna, thinking of Nellie's kind and innocent nature, waited for the door to close fully before turning to Cythera with a grave sigh, "It may anger him, but it's all for the better if Roger's anger is directed at me rather than anyone else."

* * *

Dinner was an elaborate and public affair and, as always, it was like dining in a pit of vipers. Alanna was not fooled by the elaborate clothes, delicately chosen gestures, and blinding smiles. Dinner was nothing but a beautifully disguised political minefield, much like the royal balls. She had long since mastered the art of conversing while using as few words as possible. For the most part, she tried to get through dinner with a series of well-timed smiles and nods. Often, a white lie was needed to keep conversation light. Tonight, in particular, was proving to be a popular night for white lies.

A selection of high ranking nobles sat at the long table, seated in the order of their value to the king. Servants lined the walls, practically invisible until someone beckoned them forth for one reason or another. As queen, Alanna sat at Roger's right side, although she knew that had more to do with tradition than with value. On Roger's other side was the King's Champion, Alex of Tirragen. His dark eyes gave nothing away as he sipped at his wine and conversed lightly with Delia of Eldorne.

Delia currently served the purpose of being one of Roger's worst and best kept secrets. Alanna was well aware of Roger's late night rendezvous with the beautiful woman, however, not many others were as well informed as she was. Alanna supposed that sharing chambers with a person tended to make one more aware of their absences, no matter how fond one was of said absences. The woman's tinkling laugh grated on Alanna's eardrums, and she purposefully ignored the sly glances that Delia kept sending her way. She had bigger problems at hand than her husband's token of infidelity — such as the abundance of silver utensils arrayed around her plates.

Alanna narrowed her eyes at the assortment in front of her and then glanced at Thom with a pleading look in her eyes. Thom smiled wickedly and touched the far right fork…and switched to the middle one and then picked up a spoon. Alanna bared her teeth at him and then picked a fork at random. It was times like these that she wished she had paid more attention to that bore of a deportment class. With this thought came a sharp stab of nostalgia. No, she didn't regret not paying attention in deportment class, for the memory of sharing jokes with her old friends was far more valuable than knowing which fork to use.

Alanna gave an internal sigh of relief. It was nice to know that there were some things that Roger could not take away from her.

Someone cleared their throat and Alanna blinked to find both Alex and Delia staring at her. Delia smiled with well feigned politeness, "My Lady, I was just saying that those are quite the pins you've in your hair. I've been looking for stones shaped as such. Although, I might pick a stone that is a bit less…somber."

Alanna smiled with even better feigned politeness, "I'd be glad to put you in touch with the craftsman and, yes, I agree that a brighter color might suit your purposes a little better."

Out of the corner of her eye, Alanna saw Alex smile mildly, as if he recognized the exchange of thinly veiled insults and found it pleasantly entertaining. She turned to him, "Sir Alex, you seem to be a connoisseur of dark colored clothing. Tell me, how does my complexion fare alongside the onyx?"

Alex raised an eyebrow at Alanna's uncharacteristically shallow statement, but was otherwise unruffled. He replied without missing a beat, "You look stunning as always, my queen."

She glanced down, trying to look flattered and not frustrated by his words, "You're too kind, Sir Alex."

"_You look stunning, my queen," _Delia mocked under her breath, just loud enough for Alanna to hear.

Knowing that Delia, and Alex in his own way, were goading her in an attempt to get a reaction, Alanna bit her tongue. She feared that it would be permanently indented, for she'd been biting it intermittently for the better part of the hour in order to keep herself from saying something foolish. The only thing stunning about her was her temper, and even that was kept on a short leash now.

It was as if the servants noticed the tension in the air and the next course was served, with all the complications of forks and spoons alongside it. Alanna sighed. Conversation slowed as the focus was shifted to the main course and she closed her eyes for a moment. There used to be a time when dinner wasn't so exhausting.

Upon opening them she found Thayet, who was seated a couple chairs down, giving her a concerned look. Alanna gave the foreign princess a small, but genuine smile. She then noted, for the first time, who was seated on Thayet's left. Alanna cringed on the inside, but attempted to give Josiane Rittevon a small, albeit not-so-genuine smile. It turned out to be more of a grimace. The Copper Isles Princess gave her dazzling grin in response, but her eyes were shadowed with bitterness. Alanna had no idea why the woman remained in Tortall instead of returning to her homeland, but she supposed that everyone had secret reasons for the things they did these days.

Lies and vipers. Her life was nothing but lies and vipers.


	3. Ch 2: Clarity

**A/N: Hello. Thanks for the favs, follows, and reviews. I'm still looking for a beta, so PM me if interested. I just wanted to send a big thank you out to Sweetmari, whose wonderful plotting mind contributed to the creation of this chapter. Also, **_**italics**_** in this chapter are a flashback. I'm usually loathe to use flashbacks but it felt necessary in this case. Enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

George Cooper, the former King of Thieves in Corus, stared absentmindedly at a full mug of ale. Beads of sweat dripped down the side of the tin, and his eyes followed them as they carved out pathways down towards the table. The fact that the mug was full was neither here nor there, it was his fourth after all. Having requested the strongest ale available, not that watered down nonsense they served to most of the customers, he had been anticipating some peace of mind. He was, however, unfortunately clear-headed. His Sight would allow him no solitude from drink. The slight burn of the liquor was somewhat comforting, so he gulped down the dregs at the bottom and waved at Rifter for another.

At times like this, he needed and savored every source of comfort, but fate's cruelty had made comfort a rare luxury these days. The situation in Tortall, for those who knew it best, was a study in irony. How everything had turned backwards, been twisted and flipped upside down. His last few months in Corus had tuned him in to the skewed nature of everything.

The danger in the kingdom's capital city, for those people who had been openly loyal to Jon, had been steadily rising. Anyone foolish enough to stick around faced the possibility of execution, and the early hangings had been proof that Roger wasn't afraid to order them. Nor did he care who he ordered dead. Among those executed were Si-Cham, Chief of Masters at the Mithran Cloisters, and a mix of outspoken nobles and commoners in support of Jonathan. Roger seemed to be asking for civil unrest, yet few had made moves against him since those grim hangings. The only thing that had come between George and the noose had been, ironically enough, the Lord Provost's continuous intervention. George did not know how or why the man was protecting him, but he didn't question it. Eventually, the older man had set up a covert meeting with George, imploring him to leave the capital and go into hiding with the others that had fled. He was exhausted, the Lord Provost had said, and the King of Thieves was becoming an increasingly difficult man to protect.

George had compromised. Port Caynn was just far enough to where his stealth as a thief would keep him out of sight, but close enough to where he could keep an eye on the situation in Corus. He suspected that the Lord Provost had had a word with his counterpart in Port Caynn, because things in the Rogue were running more smoothly than usual. They had been having fewer confrontations with the Provost's men. In fact, there had been one time when the Rogue and the city guardsmen had worked together to capture a wayward rogue. The man had somehow managed to follow George's trail from Corus to Port Caynn and was bent on killing him. The man had been captured and imprisoned in the Provost's dungeons in Corus. He was charged with a slew of prior crimes cumulating in a list so long that the king decided he was a threat to the crown. He was now awaiting trial by combat, for he was a disgraced nobleman, but a nobleman by blood nonetheless. George had no doubt that Ralon of Malven, also known as Claw on the streets, would soon feel the cold steel of the King's Champion's blade.

Shaking his head at how things had turned out, George rubbed his hand along the puckered scar on his jaw, a token of the duel that had marked the beginning of his reign as King of Thieves in Port Caynn. When he had first arrived in coastal city six months earlier, George had been swift in commandeering control of the Rogue. The old leader hadn't been particularly good at his job, but he had been excellent with knives. Therefore, anyone who had challenged him for the throne before hadn't been successful. George, who was a natural with blades and quick on his feet to boot, had won the duel, but hadn't come out unharmed. The first time he had addressed his new men had been with a bloody gash on his face and sweat dripping into his eyes. Luckily, the loyalty of the thieves in Port Caynn had come easier than the throne.

The thieves had been eager for new leadership for a long time, and had become familiar with George when he had stayed in House Azik prior to King Roald's death. While he hadn't particularly wanted the position, it was a necessary move for the rebellion. They needed the influence over the common people and the underworld. With Marek in control of the Rogue in Corus, their influence was more widespread and their connection with Corus was more reliable. The more power the rebellion held in the kingdom, whether it be official or unofficial, the better their chances were.

Despite his position making things easier for the rebellion, George felt that his own problems had only increased in number. One of the most significant conundrums on his mind was a young woman who had, whether wittingly or unwittingly, taken a kingdom's burdens onto her shoulders. Alanna of Trebond, now the Queen of Tortall, was a common intruder to his thoughts and dreams. What she had done, what she was doing — well, there was no clarity to be achieved on the subject. She was a savior to one set of eyes and a traitor to another. The epitome of duplicity.

As a queen, she loved the people of Tortall and the people loved her back. The people she loved when she was merely Alanna, however, despised her. George had no doubts as to her true loyalties, but he kept his beliefs a secret. There was a reason, he was certain, as to why Alanna had set herself up as a traitor to her friends and to Jon. He would not be the one to destroy that particular mask of hers.

On the other hand, he didn't like hearing her old friends blame her, in part, for the kingdom's steady downfall. He knew she was surely doing everything in her power to keep Tortall in one piece, but sometimes that wasn't enough. Either as queen, she didn't have enough power to hold the kingdom together, or as King, Roger was just powerful enough to tear it apart. Maybe if he could convince people —. George shook off these thoughts. The lass had made her bed and she would have to lie in it.

He had begun counting off numbers in his head, trying to keep the darkness at bay, as a barmaid brought him his drink. She whispered softly into his ear, "Yer friend, the brawny, fierce lookin' one, just walked in. I'll show him up to yer rooms then, Majesty." She then kissed him full on the mouth and laughed prettily, looking as if she was doing nothing more than flirting. As she flounced off, George looked towards the door. Indeed, Liam Ironarm had entered The Waterlily.

* * *

The Waterlily had once been a gambling house, with luxurious rooms upstairs designed for…other sorts of guilty pleasures. It was one of these rooms that Liam was shown into. The buxom barmaid who had led him upstairs gave him a wink and closed the door, not before letting him know what time she was done working. Wearing a faint smile, Liam surveyed his surroundings. There was a simple array of furniture, an assortment of parchment, and a rather impressive array of knives. The sparse furnishings looked odd in the spacious room, as if the walls were begging to be adorned with richer decorations than faded maps and blueprints. Ignoring the weapons and the chairs, Liam opted for pacing the floor and examining the maps in turn.

He was engrossed in staring at a detailed map of Port Caynn when he heard the door open behind him. As he turned, he heard a voice that was laden with exhaustion, "Well met, Dragon. I take it this isn't a social visit."

Liam turned towards the source of the voice, who was locking the door and glancing around the room with a careful eye. George, just like everyone else, bore physical signs of the last year. Since he had first met the man on the way to Corus from the Roof of the World, George Cooper had acquired a weariness in his eyes and new lines about his face. The scar running along his jaw was new as well, but Liam supposed scars came with the territory of being the Rogue.

Clasping hands with the man, Liam gave a harsh laugh, "Not much time for social visits these days, Cooper. How's the change in scenery been treating you?"

"Different thieves, same dirty tricks," George said with a grimace, "although the sea is a nice touch. I daresay it's a much better view than dank passageways. They must be starving for daylight."

With an involuntary twitch of the lips, Liam fought a smile , "Even Raoul's looking a bit on the pale side. He's been stuck beneath ever since he had a near miss with the Provost's Guard last week. Apparently, an old acquaintance recognized him in the marketplace. No shame in people these days."

"People would turn in their own mother if it got them a bit of coin or the king's favor. Fear brings out the worst in folk," George shook his head, "speaking of Raoul, I assume you've brought news?"

The Dragon nodded, "The Sandrunners were a wealth of information. Raoul said that the Bazhir are willing to discuss an alliance, albeit a tentative one. There's been no lapse in communication with The Voice, thank the gods. No news as to his location, though. The only tribe that's been unclear in their opinion has been the Bloody Hawk, for obvious reasons."

George nodded in understanding, "For them, rebelling against the crown essentially means rebelling against one of their own. We've a similar situation with the spy network. With Myles underground, none of the Crown's spies know who to report to. Loyalty isn't as straightforward as it used to be."

"Our queen ensured that the moment she accepted the crown," Liam said, his eyes shifting to a darker color. George raised his eyebrows in response to Liam's icy tone.

"Ironarm, Alanna didn't —"

"Don't," Liam interrupted, "I didn't come here to discuss her. I came here to deliver news. If this alliance with the Bazhir comes to fruition, our intentions will become quite clear to the king. We're running out of time."

George frowned, but easily accepted Liam's swift change in subjects. He began to pace the room, "We never had any time to begin with. Already, too many people know too much. It only takes one person's allegiance to shift and this whole thing will come down on our heads."

Liam laughed and George stopped his pacing and glanced up as the Dragon spoke, "What makes you think everything _won't_ come down on our heads, regardless? We've always known the risks of something like this, Cooper."

"I know the risks all too well. I just wish things were a bit clearer," George said as he sank into a chair with a sigh. He unearthed a blank piece of parchment from the mess on the table and began to scribble out a coded message. Due to the distance between Port Caynn and the rebellion's underground headquarters in Port Legann, George's communication with them was limited to coded letters. Liam, whose frequent traveling was never brought into question because of his Shang status, often acted as a messenger between different parties.

Liam, sharing George's exasperation, walked over and pulled up a chair beside him. He spoke in a wry tone, "Clarity is for peace time and there's nothing peaceful about what we're planning to do."

George glanced up from his writing, a bitter smile on his face, "No, there's nothing peaceful about starting a war, is there?"

* * *

After Liam left, George found himself sitting at the table in his room, with his chin resting on the wood — eyeing another mug of ale.

"If the current situation gets any worse," he muttered to himself, "Tortall's going to run out of liquor fair soon."

"Talking to yerself again, are ye?"

He glanced up at the sound of the husky voice, lifting his chin to find Rispah at the door with a new born in her arms. The sight of the child brought the pang of a memory to his chest, but George shoved it down.

"I'm always talking to myself these days, Rispah." He nodded at the bundle in her arms, "Little Pearl can't take care of her own children?"

Rispah gave a hearty laugh, "The girl's a brilliant criminal, but she's no mother. I don't mind though, the babe keeps me busy — keeps my mind off things."

Little Pearl, named after a former Queen of Thieves, was Rispah's second in command of the ladies in the Rogue. She had quite the eye for men, however, and was often out fooling around instead of tending to issues that rose within the thieving world. Despite having had a child, her habits hadn't changed and she often left Rispah or one of the young flower girls to deal with the babe.

The young child started to cry then, effectively voicing his need for food. Rispah went to leave, but paused before she shut the door, "I'll go take care of this little lad and then I'll return. I need to hear what Liam had to say."

George nodded and listened to her retreating footsteps down the hall. As the sound of babe's crying started to fade, he was thrust into the memory that the newborn boy had brought to the surface earlier.

_He'd heard the news, of course. There'd been talk of the coming heirs to the kingdom for the past nine months, but with the first cannon blast, everything became so real. He had flinched at the first sound of the cannon, his heart leaping in his chest with the realization of what the resounding sound meant. The cannons were fired 21 times if a royal heir was born. He began to count. With each consecutive blast, George felt Alanna slipping further and further from him._

_After the 21__st__ and final blast, he was numb. Alanna was lost to him. Roger's rule was secure. He heard the cries in the streets, the sound of music and shouting. People sure were quick on their feet when it came time to celebrate the new births. There had been talk of the Queen's due date for weeks now. The streets had been lined with colorful bouquets of flowers, offerings to the new heirs. Garlands of baby blue and violet were strung over the streets. The high end market even sold cloth brooches and miniature tiaras and crowns in honor of the coming heirs. All in all, the streets looked more festive than they had in a while. _

_George had wondered at first why anyone would celebrate the solidification of Roger's line. However, as he thought more about it, he realized that maybe the people weren't celebrating that. Maybe they just wanted an excuse to smile and to laugh, for both were rare things these days. _

"_Goddess bless the Crown Prince and Princess!"_

_He didn't move from his slumped position at the table, even when the doors to his chambers opened. His sight would warn him of any danger, not that he particularly cared about danger at the moment. The room was temporarily flooded with the louder sounds from the celebration outside. As the sounds quieted slightly, George sank lower into his chair with a sigh. Only when someone pulled up a chair next to him did he glance up to find Rispah looking at him sympathetically._

"_They've announced the names," she said quietly, "Roald and Marinie. Rumor has it, they inherited their ma's eyes."_

_George scoffed, trying not to think of a certain set of violet eyes. "The cannon fire's barely settled, Rispah. I doubt anyone knows the babes' eye colors yet. Although, if you were trying to make me feel worse, you succeeded."_

"_Mithros have mercy, George. I don't want you to feel terrible, but I want you to feel _something. _You may think this is over, but the rest of us don't. There's been talk…"_

_George lifted his head, "Talk? Talk of what, Rispah?"_

_His cousin hesitated, unsure of whether or not to bring it up when he was in such a state. George narrowed his eyes at her, "Tell me."_

_She sighed and began to explain, "There's been whispers, only amongst the Rogue, mind you. But the Rogue's not the only one that is worried about what havoc Roger will wreak on Tortall. I fear those executions were just the beginning. Roger began his reign with over a dozen executions, how do ye think it will end, without our intervention? People will get desperate with time, and desperate people make for an unstable kingdom."_

_George began to understand what she was getting at. He smiled grimly, "The people of the Rogue have never been the types to sit idly by."_

"_Nor are they the type to pout about things they still have the power to change," Rispah said, giving him a stern look, "Ye want her back? Then do what ye need to do to get her back. She's not lost, George, but it won't be easy."_

_He pondered this before looking up at his cousin, a hard glint in his eyes, "So…rebellion?"_

_Rispah smiled darkly, "Aye, rebellion. Roger thinks he's won, and we have to show him otherwise. Not now and not soon, but one day."_

_George gave a sharp nod, "One day." He glanced out the window, at the dancing and celebration. He felt bitter acceptance flood him, but there was a spark of hope beneath all that. He turned back to Rispah,"But for now, long live Prince Roald and Princess Marinie."_

"_Long live," Rispah replied. She paused briefly before adding in a murmur, "And may they have a kingdom to rule, when this is all over."_

Brought back to the present by a knock on his door, George shook himself out of his daze. That memory was from 9 months prior, when he had still been residing in Corus. It had been such a simple conversation, yet it had turned into such tangled web of careful maneuvering and bold moves. This was no longer small talk of dissent in a tavern. The risks were getting higher and the time frame was getting smaller. This was turning into a war, and war did not come without casualties. George knew people would die, but he also knew that more than just people would die if they did not act. The Kingdom of Tortall would not last, it would crumble if left in the hands of its current king. Rebellion wasn't just an option anymore, it was the only chance they had left.


End file.
